


Holmes for the Holidays

by 17 pansies (17pansies)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Festivus 2014, M/M, My favourite boys, festive fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17pansies/pseuds/17%20pansies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson discuss the finer points of her Royal Majesty's festive whims.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holmes for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> A little something written for Festivus - apologies for it being late, but at least it's still Christmas day <3 Happy holidays, folks.
> 
> With love and thanks, as always, to my two darling enablers who know who they are.

“Honestly, Watson, I fail to see how indulging in our Royal Majesty’s festive whims could possibly improve upon the midwinter solstice we have always enjoyed.” Holmes sat back in his chair, a curling wreath of blue smoke snaking from the bowl of his pipe.

“Bah humbug,” Watson told him. He tried not to smile but didn't think he was that successful.

Holmes’ eyes narrowed.

“That is a reference to some kind of popular fiction, is it not, Watson? You have that smug expression you wear when you think I do not know something.”

“It is indeed, dear boy, and you are the biggest Scrooge of them all.” Watson passed Holmes the glass of brandy he had just poured and sat down with his own. The fire was lit, the doors were locked and there was a muffled calm which spoke of fresh snow and the whole of London settling in for a quiet Christmas Eve. “There’s no need to be such a curmudgeon about it all, Holmes. Some of the traditions the Royal family have introduced are delightful.”

“Name one.” Holmes sniffed.

“The Christmas tree.”

“Ahh, the Weihnachtsbaum. Where some poor soul has to drag a piece of forest into his home, shake out the spiders and dandify it with sweetmeats and candles, only to have to drag it back out again on Twelfth night. Delightful."

"Honestly, Holmes." Watson shook his head. "Have you no festive spirit about you?"

"Only what is in this glass." Holmes lifted his brandy. "So what other ridiculous modern contrivances are you going to foist off on me, Watson?" He puffed at his pipe, eyes narrowed behind the cloud of fragrant smoke. 

"I thought we might partake of Tom Smith's sweet crackers." 

"Yes, delightful idea, wrap candies in coloured paper and then flavour them with a touch of black powder."

Watson stroked a finger and thumb over his moustache which made Holmes huff. 

"I can see you smirking behind your hand, Watson, you're terribly transparent." 

"It's Christmas, Holmes, stop being such a grump."

"Tell me what is wrong, my dear man, with a bowl of good kedgeree for breakfast and a slice or two of roast beef for dinner? Finish that with a glass of port in front of the fire on Christmas night and that should be more than enough for any pious soul."

Watson smothered a laugh, and finally, Holmes lost his poker face. His grey eyes suddenly sparkled silver and his laugh was quite possibly the best thing Watson had heard all day. 

"Pious, Holmes?" Watson asked. "I have heard many an appellation applied to you, but pious? I am sorry, old boy, but that is definitely not one of them."

Holmes stood, moving to the mantle where the Persian slipper sat. Watson took a mouthful of his brandy, watching as Holmes laid his pipe down next to the slipper.

"I believe, Watson, that this is the season for each to celebrate in his own way. What i object to is the expectation that we must all conform to a certain pattern of observance."

"Well, there is one other tradition which I believe you will approve of, which predates even our illustrious Royal Majesty," Watson said offhand. 

"Oh?"

Watson stood, placing his empty glass on the small table next to his chair and moved to stand next to Holmes, who was watching him over the rim of his own glass. Then Watson glanced up to the ceiling above them. Holmes looked too, and his eyes widened. 

Pinned to the yellowed plaster was a sprig of mistletoe, white berries glowing pale and translucent in the light from the candles on the mantlepiece. 

"I see the symbolism of this is not lost on you," Watson said. He watched Holmes' eyes flick between the closed door and the drawn curtains. "Holmes?"

"You are becoming bold, dear boy, it is not yet seven."

"Mrs Hudson is at her sister's and will not return until after midnight mass." Watson reached out and cupped Holmes' cheek. "If I may?"

"You, dear man, are an incurable romantic." But there was a catch in Holmes' voice which belied the disparaging words. Watson would have said it was almost fond. 

"Guilty as charged." Watson leaned forward, and Holmes met him halfway. The kiss was warm and chaste, a promise and an affirmation. "Merry Christmas, old friend."

"Merry Christmas, indeed."


End file.
